


Better Homes and Gardens

by chick (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, pseudo-curtain fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:32:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After getting whammied on a hunt, Dean wakes up a househusband in Lawrence married to his little brother. Trapped in this world where down is up and up is completely fucked, Dean desperately tries to figure out a way to get back to a world that makes sense without completely losing his mind in the process. Featuring: spice gardens, bridge clubs, and the power of incestuous, gay love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Homes and Gardens

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】Better Homes And Gardens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6858520) by [ElRey_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElRey_J/pseuds/ElRey_J), [TYshangshan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TYshangshan/pseuds/TYshangshan), [WincestJ2CN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WincestJ2CN/pseuds/WincestJ2CN)



>   
>    
>  [Art post](http://uh-tiramisu.livejournal.com/3999.html)   
> 
> 
> This fic was written for [Sam/Dean Minibang](samdean-otp.livejournal.com) challenge on livejournal, and it's the longest fic I've ever written. I had so much fun writing it, even if my hair was pulled out at times and my muse alluded me. Huge thanks to the very lovely and talented [uh-tiramisu](http://uh-tiramisu.livejournal.com/) (seriously, go check out the amazing art she did for this fic) for putting up with me through this whole thing. <3 I hope you all enjoy! 

“ _Sam_!”

Another bright pink spark blasts next to Dean’s head and he only narrowly manages to roll out of the way and scramble to his feet in time to miss it. The sound of splintering wood — probably the school’s greenhouse — echoes behind him, and he picks up speed.

It’s witches. Of fucking _course_ it’s witches.

If they had known that for sure going in, they might have bothered to get their weapons out of the car before they went interrogating on the school grounds. As it stands, both he and Sam just have their flimsy knives to protect them from this stir-crazy bitch, and no way of getting close enough to put them to use.

“Dean!” Sam calls out in warning. Dean looks back over his shoulder to see the witch chasing, and fuck, she can’t be any older than 17, even though the hatred in her eyes makes her seem much older. She’s flying at him with pink hands glowing threatening above her, eyes locked on Dean.

He hears Sam call out again, but he can’t risk looking behind himself again or seeking out Sam, so he makes a choice and dives to the right. It’s the wrong option apparently, because the next time Sam calls his name it’s with blood-curdling panic.

Then Dean feels something like flames engulfing his entire body, a milky bright pink clouding his vision, and then everything goes black.

  


He wakes up to the smell of sex.

Of course it would be his sense of smell that emerges from the boxed-in darkness first. He can appreciate the irony of the fact, even as the rest of his senses are plunged into bright awareness.

There’s a soft ringing in his ears and a bitter taste in his mouth. His sight is fuzzy, and he blinks rapidly to pull his vision into focus.

Once he’s fully in control of his senses, he begins taking inventory of his surroundings: he’s lying on his back and staring up at a white ceiling. He feels elevated, the surface soft and giving — he’s on a bed, much softer than any motel bed. For a few seconds he considers the fact that he’s back at the Bat Cave, but everything else is so off he quickly discards the thought.

There’s the sound of rain distantly, which Dean’s foggy mind slowly amends to a shower running. He’s in a room — and he’s not alone.

Dean sits up abruptly, already on high alert. The quick movement causes his head to spin, but he keeps a hold of himself. This has _wrong_ written all over it. He breathes out slow and deep, and looks around and takes in all the exits and pats the bed down for a gun as he gets his mind in order.

The last thing he remembers is being whammied by that bitch, Sam’s voice screaming his name in panic, and the taste of burnt lemon meringue pie in his mouth before everything went black. Now he’s here, on the fluffiest bed with the whitest sheets he’s ever seen, and _someone is getting out of the bathroom_.

Dean whirls around and tenses up defensively. He knows he’s fucked, doesn’t have a gun or knife or even a goddamn bat to protect himself. He’s basically a sitting duck right now, and he doesn’t even know what’s coming so he can’t know if he can even defend himself in a physical fight and –

“Dean?”

And Dean must be tripping major balls right now, because in front of him isn’t any monster, beast, or teenage witch-bitch, but his little brother, a towel as soft and white as the sheets slung around his hips with his ridiculous hair dripping wet across his shoulders.

Again, Dean thinks he must be back at the Bat Cave, but that can’t be right. Maybe he hit his head too hard on the way down, but there’s something decidedly _different_ about Sam. Not monster-different, at least as far as he can tell, but there’s definitely something off about him. Maybe it’s the dopier than usual smile on his face, or the fact that his hair is just a little bit longer than it was before. Whatever it is, Dean knows Sam, and _that_ isn’t Sam.

He doesn’t make any sudden movements, just in case, but creeps slowly back to the edge of the bed furthest from where it’s standing.

The brows on Imitation Sam’s face draw together in concern, and it mimics Sam so flawlessly that it makes Dean pause momentarily. “Dean? Are you okay?”

“Stay back,” Dean snarls darkly, and silently curses himself as his voice quivers with the still ripe residue of nausea. Sounding vulnerable makes him seem like easy prey.

The thing stops advancing and holds its hands up in mock surrender. “The hell, Dean? Is this some sort of... roleplay thing?”

Dean blinks at the question, but doesn’t move or even slacken his stance. Getting off the bed in case of an attack wouldn’t be easy, but the bedroom door isn't too far away. He could probably bolt right now, while he’s gotten it to pause. All he has to do is —

— is pay attention, because in the few hazy moments he was lost in his own head, the thing pretending to be Sam had advanced into his space and _holy shit he’s being kissed_. 

“The _fuck_  —” Dean sputters and jumps back so far he actually slips off the bed and crashes to the ground.

“Dean!” Sam-Not-Sam exclaims and rushes to the bedside to reach for him. Dean flails out to keep the perverted thing masquerading as his brother at bay.

When he’s flail-crawled far enough away to put a good distance from himself and the thing, Dean pants harshly and says with gusto, “ _Christo_.”

He braces himself for smoke, black eyes, the whole nine, but nothing happens. Sam, still dripping wet and clutching a towel around his waist, blinks at him in confusion. Still shaking from waking up in the Twilight Zone and being kissed by his little brother, Dean shakily tries again.

“ _Christo_.”

“No, Dean, it’s ‘Sam’,” Sam says in amusement, voice still dripping with confusion and concern.

This doesn’t make any sense, none of it makes any sense, and the panic Dean tried so hard to tap down is beginning to rise again.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, soft and soothing, as he crouches down next to Dean. Dean tenses, anticipating another sneak-kiss attack. “Seriously Dean, are you okay?”

As the thing that is probably not Sam gets closer, Dean is hit with another wave of nausea and the edges of his vision begin to blur and blacken. His heart skips fearfully in his chest. Fuck, he’s going to blackout again, and the danger of the situation is even higher now that he knows this thing is not a demon but definitely can’t be his brother.

Weakly, he raises his hand in a poor attempt at fending the thing off as it kneels in front of him, and reaches out. “ _Stop_  —”

The last thought in Dean’s mind before he slips back into darkness is how strangely human the hand cupping his cheek feels.

 

 

The next time Dean wakes up, it’s to the smell of pancakes.

The rest of his senses come back much quicker than before, and thankfully, this time he’s more in control of himself.

That doesn’t mean he’s anymore in control of the situation, however. He’s in a different place now — a living room, judging by the TV sitting on a neatly organized stand and the couch he’s laying on — with a similar cream vine pattern on the wall as in the bedroom, and the same soft, white carpet. Irrationally, Dean thinks it looks like the cover of a _Better Homes and Gardens_ issue. Knowing his line of work, he might just _be_ in a _Better Homes and Gardens_ issue.

“Dean?”

Dean startles and almost falls off the couch, but catches himself on the edge of the coffee table in time. He whirls around, sense of déjà vu telling him to be on high alert, and sees Probably Not Sam standing in the middle of the room with a worried look on his face.

He’s not naked this time, thank god. Actually, he’s dressed like he’s going Widow Hunting for a case. The familiarity of the situation has an almost immediate effect on Dean’s nerves, though he still feels disoriented and off. This has _fishy witch business_ written all over it, and there’s no way Dean is going to let himself relax until he knows what exactly is going on here.

Sam walks over to him slowly, like he’s approaching a feral animal, and Dean sees the source of the earlier smell. Sam is carrying a plate stacked with pancakes in one hand, and a steaming mug of coffee in the other. Dean’s stomach growls involuntarily at the sight, which makes Sam laughs.

“You, uh, you kinda freaked out back there. Went out like a light. I know, I know, no doctors,” Sam explains as he sets the plate and mug on the coffee table. Slowly, Sam sits on the arm of the couch furthest from Dean, which is a relief. Dean eyes it longingly, but doesn’t reach for it. There’s no guarantee any of this is on the up and up, no matter how good it all smells, or how Sam-like this Not-Sam seems. “I know the cooking is usually your territory, but trust me, it’s edible.”

“I doubt that.” The snarky remark rolls easily off Dean’s tongue. Sam looks pleasantly surprised at that and laughs, and it’s such a Sam laugh that Dean involuntarily relaxes even further.

Sam stands awkwardly, fingers twitching in that nervous way of his, and Dean eyes him back wearily. “I called Moran at the firm and told him I’d be a little late. He didn’t seem too happy about it, the dick. I tell the man my husband passes out and conks his head, and all the guy wants to know is if I’ll still be there in time for the afternoon debriefing.”

Suddenly, Dean is glad he didn’t reach for the coffee, because if he did he’d be spitting it out right now. _Husband_?

“I thought doing non-profit would protect me from assholes,” Sam says irritably, more to himself than Dean, and runs a hand through his hair. _Oh, fuck_ , that’s definitely a gold band on his right hand.

Dean’s mind starts reeling a mile a minute, and he wants to ask questions, but he doesn’t even know what _to_ ask. Why did he end up here? What even _is_ here?

His distress must show on his face, because Sam’s own softens from irritated to troubled. “I’ve gotta go baby, I’m sorry. I left a bottle of Ibuprofen out on the counter, and I’ll bring something home on my way from work so you don’t have to cook anything. I can’t call you on my lunch break because of the meeting, but don’t be afraid to call me if you need me, all right? Moran and his contributors can go fuck themselves.”

Dean can only stare dumbly back at Sam as he grabs a sleek black suitcase from behind the couch and checks his watch. His mind is still running a mile a minute, jumping from one thing to another, but always coming back to _husband_.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Sam asks, and only hesitates a little before crossing over the back of the sofa and pressing a peck to Dean’s cheek. Dean’s too stunned to do anything except sit there and let it happen. He still feels the pressure of it against his check even after Sam’s pulled away.

“Love you,” Sam murmurs so sincerely it makes Dean shudder. Dean watches him hesitate again fleetingly before heading towards the door with a small wave. A few beats later, the door opens and closes and Dean’s left in strange silence.

 

After collecting himself, Dean shakes off as much of the residual weirdness as he can and goes exploring. His head is still pounding, and he’s all shaken up with a mind that feels like it’s literally rattling, but he’s still a hunter, dammit, and he’s not going to just sit around asking the empty air for answers.

He thinks back to earliest events preceding waking up in the strange bedroom that he can remember. He knows he and Sam were investigating a series of townspeople falling into comas seemingly out of the blue in rural Oklahoma. One minute, they were going about their business, the next they were out cold, due to no medical reason any doctors could find.

Out of all sixteen documented cases, only one person had ever woken up in the 7 months it had been happening: a 47-year-old widower named Chuck Calvin. It was considered a miracle at the time, front page news in the _Ann Arbor Gazette_ for two weeks straight. The bitch of the thing was that Chuck Calvin committed suicide a month after his miraculous awakening. The suicide note he left for his maid to find said being in that coma was the most alive he’d felt since his wife died, and the real world just wasn’t worth it after that. 

The first conclusion he and Sam came to was djinn, but from the get-go there were holes in the theory. For one, the victims all lived within a 30-mile radius of one another, and there weren’t any of the typical ruins djinns like to hide in the area. There had been no reports of strange markings on any of the victims as well, and when they went to Handover General to inspect themselves, each one was clean of poison.

It wasn’t until they were inspecting the high school campus where the first nine victims had gone that they found out what it really was, the hard way. Sabrina the Teenage Bitch, _of course_.

It was supposed to be a simple job: go in, interview some hysterical moms and widows, find the son of a bitch behind all this, and get back in time for Bad Movie Night. They were close to finishing it all off nice and pretty with a bow on top when she caught them off-guard and shot Dean right in the chest. A swirling, pinkish ray blasted him back off his heels, and everything went black. When he woke up, he was here.

This is definitely the witch’s doing, that much is clear. She’s sent him into some sort of — coma, maybe, like the other victims. An alternate reality where down is up and up is under and Dean is married to his little brother.

The reminder that he’s _married to his little brother_ hits him with another wave of unease.

There’s evidence of it all across the quaint little home. There’s photos of them scattered across the living room: candids, photos with people Dean recognizes and some with people he doesn’t, a bedroom with a single king sized bed, and on the edge of the coffee table in the living room, a golden frame with a picture of Sam and Dean staring at each other, all crisp black tuxes and blushing smiles as a preacher looks on in the background.

There’s also a gold band on Dean’s hand, something he didn’t notice in the chaos of the day. He spends a good long while staring at it, wondering at how odd and wrong it feels on his hand. He yanks it off and slams on the coffee table, rattles it so much the picture frame falls face first on the table. Dean looks down at it in bitter satisfaction.

He’s gotta find a way out of this. Chances are he’s probably stuck in his own head, so he’s gotta wake himself up somehow. He thinks about the most obvious answer, suicide, but quickly rules that out. Just because the witch’s power is djinn-like doesn’t mean it works exactly like a djinn. Offing himself could possibly cause more problems than Dean is ready to deal with.

He should do some research. He and Sam had found out too late it was even a witch behind all this, so there had been no time to find the cure. There’s no doubt Sam, if the witch didn’t get to him too, is hard at working trying to find a way to get Dean out of this. He’ll have to do his part from the inside. Chuck Calvin woke up on his own somehow, so there’s hope that Dean can do the same.

There’s a laptop on a desk in the master bedroom and a computer in what looks like a study, so searching “incestuous witch hexes” has got to be top priority.

Or second top priority, because he’s _starving_.

Following another quick search in and around the house. There’s an actual _spice garden_ in the front yard beside the garage, and Dean would make fun of Sam for having such a cliché apple pie life if this wasn’t his life, too. He makes a beeline for the kitchen and grabs the bottle of Ibuprofen Sam left out before he looks at the pile of mail on the counter beside the bottle and sees they’re all addressed to either Mr. Sam Winchester or Mr. Dean Winchester, and laughs bitterly into the silence.

He dry-swallows two pills and makes his way slowly back to the living room. He plops back down on the sofa and digs into the cold pancakes and even colder coffee Sam left as breakfast. It’s not the best thing he’s ever had (it’s Sam’s cooking, after all), but it’s definitely not poisonous. At this point, the odds of the food being some sort of trick or poison are low enough to be overshadowed by his gnawing hunger. 

After a cursory look around his surroundings and some digging in the couch, Dean finds the remote and turns the TV on. It’s the real deal: flat screen, packages, TiVo, the whole nine. Dean whistles low in appreciation and finds himself begrudgingly impressed. Even more so when he finds out that seasons 1 through 5 of _Dr. Sexy, MD_ are all TiVo’d and waiting at his fingertips. 

Getting some food in his system was definitely a good idea. With each passing moment and syrup-y bite, the tight feeling in his chest abates and the flow of ideas increases. Even while watching TV and eating, Dean’s mind is still working to deconstruct his situation. He wonders if in this universe he has a job he should currently be at, if there even is, in fact, a world beyond the quaint little garden outside. The rows of semi-identical houses he scanned on his brief trek outside all looked fairly home-y, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

He also wonders where Sam is. The _real_ Sam. Before he got zapped, Sam was far enough away from the witch, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t get turn around and get to him as well. If the witch got her wart-riddled claws into him and he’s somewhere in this backwards world, then the odds don’t look good for either of them. The thought is simultaneously frightening and reassuring. Frightening, because Sam might be somewhere significantly worse than the _All My Incest_ sitcom Dean’s currently in; reassuring, because it might mean he’s not so alone out here.

After he finishes the last bite, he sits the plate down and breathes deeply. He feels a little more clear-headed now, like he can actually find a solution rather than just fainting again like a little girl.

While watching the last few seconds of the Dr. Sexy, MD season 3 finale — a classic, definitely one of the top 5 episodes — Dean takes stock of his options. He could go around looking for clues, even though looking at pictures of him and Sam like _that_ makes him feel dirty, like he’s doing something bad. It’s just two virtual strangers wearing their faces and living completely separate, impossible lives from them, but it still feels too real to stomach.

He pats down his outfit, a soft, worn t-shirt and sweatpants in place of his dense layers and tight pants, and comes up as empty-handed as he feared. Calling is out, even though the only person Dean could possibly call right now just called him baby and kissed him goodbye on his way to work.

He tries the laptop — password protected, just like the computer — and looks through the books in the study. There’s a surprising amount of occult books in the collection, though there’s no protective sigils or salt lines around the house as far as Dean can tell. The majority of it is just the sort of cheap, hokey stuff normal people buy for shits and giggles, but some of it looks like the real deal. There’s a thick, weathered book on the history of warding sigils shoved behind a campy copy of _The Big Book of Mystical Creatures_. It’s dusty though, and looks more neglected than the rest in the library. It’s utterly useless to Dean’s situation, but just seeing it, something familiar in this sea of unfamiliar, is comforting in a strange way.

Everything else Dean finds is just as useless. Some are more authentic than others, but neither the _Complete Collection of the History of Fairy Colonies_ nor _Arnold Wagstaff’s Werewolf Lore_ is at all helpful. Frustration begins to gnaw at him again and he angrily stomps out of the library, leaving the books out of place with intentional carelessness.

When he goes back into the living room, it feels bigger under the weight of his helplessness. He angrily pushes the thought from his mind as he runs a hand over his face. 

This isn’t the end. There’s still a way. 

There always is.

 

 

Turns out the season 4 of Game of Thrones is also TiVo’d, so Dean is four episodes deep into really hating that fucking bastard Joffrey (as well as feeling guilty every time Cersei and Jaime appear on screen together) when the front door opens softly.

The hairs on the back of his neck raise and he turns himself up and around with his hands braced on the back of the sofa to put distance between him and whoever his attacker is. 

Except his attacker is his 10 foot baby brother with an armful of takeout boxes.

It’s not anymore reassuring though, seeing as this _isn’t_ Sam, at least, not really. Still, seeing Sam’s face — no matter how fake — calms Dean’s nerves. As does the promise of food.

“I brought Chinese,” Sam says as he beelines for the dinner table. “Chow Mein and egg rolls for you, beef with broccoli and spring rolls for me.”

Dean’s stomach growls in answer and he realizes he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Sam removes the takeout boxes from their plastic bags and abandons them on the dinner table and he balances them on his arms as he walks toward Dean. To his credit, Dean doesn’t flinch or move away, even when Sam sits right next to him.

“I figure it’s okay if we eat in here tonight,” Sam says as he places two boxes in front of Dean along with a plastic wrap of utensils. “Looks like you’re pretty enthralled right now. How are you feeling?”

Dean almost snorts as he opens the box to stare hungrily down at his dinner. It’s just like Sam to try mundane conversation to ease Dean into talking about how he’s _feeling_. He has to begrudgingly give the witch her props for accuracy.

“I’m fine.” Dean shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth to avoid saying more and give himself more time to think. He doesn’t know how to interact with this Sam yet, even though the few snatches of conversation he’s had makes him seem almost identical to the real Sam. One of the huge differences, though, is that the real Sam definitely knows about hunting. Whether this Sam does is unknown.

There’s two ways Dean could deal with this: he could play along with this fucked up universe long enough to find a way out. He and Sam had never actually found a way to cure any of the patients, which had weighed heavily on their consciences the whole way. They still weren’t entirely sure what was causing all this; the evidence pointed to everything, yet nothing at all. Djinn, but too erratic and with too wide a range of victims. Witch, but fitting no evidence of witchcraft at any of the scenes. It wasn’t until the last hour they found out their witch idea was actually correct, and there’s nothing Dean can do about it from here.

The second option is to be honest. It’s not exactly a bad option, more like a stupid one. From what Dean can understand of all this, this is a separate universe, or some sort of dream-on-steroids. This Sam might not even be a hunter; hunting itself might not even exist. The books in the library were only a temporary hope, all fluff and not substance. 

The second option, by far, is the riskiest. So Dean goes with that.

He shoves another forkful of food into his mouth before he speaks. Sam scrunches his nose up as expected. “Sam, can I... ask you something?”

Sam looks shocked that Dean’s talking, and nearly trips over his words when he says, “Of course, Dean.”

Sighing, Dean looks up at the screen where Joffrey is taking “dickish” to new levels. “I, ah, my back’s been killing me, man.”

Immediately, Sam looks intensely concerned. Dean mentally curses himself for choosing that to open with. Even if this isn’t the real Sam, putting that look on his face still burns something awful. 

“Your back? Did you hurt this morning when you fainted?” Sam sets his food down and turns to completely face Dean, eyes wide and worried. 

Dean feels his ears heat up. “I did not _faint_ , Sam. No, it’s just —,” he pauses and licks his lips, cuts his eyes to the screen because he’s a bit of a coward. “I think I threw it out on a hunt.”

Sam falls silent and still next to him. Dean finally looks away from the TV to gauge Sam’s reaction. When Sam finally speaks, Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “A hunt?”

Squaring his chin, Dean looks Sam in the eye and nods. “Yeah, a hunt.”

The look of disbelief on Sam’s face makes something inside of Dean sink. “When did you go hunting? We haven’t even been out of Lawrence since Valentine’s Day weekend.”

Dean forces down and shudder and tries not to think about what any Valentine’s Day weekend plans with this version of Sam would be like. “I... uh, are you sure? I mean, last week there was this wendigo —”

“Wendigo?” Sam says, and the disbelief in his face slowly transforms from frustration to amused annoyance. “What, a snipe, too? Dean, exactly how hard did you hit your head when you went down?”

Dean sighs down into food. Well, that answers that question. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just messin’ with you, Sammy.”

Sam’s eyebrows draw together and he gives a lopsided smile. “Since when do you call me Sammy?”

Dean’s gotta get back home.

 

 

The next morning Dean is woken by a large hand shaking his shoulder. He groans and nearly rolls off the couch in a groggy haze. When he finally pries his eye open, Sam’s drawn, worried face comes into view.

“You didn’t come to bed last night.” Sam’s voice lilts up at the end, making it more of a question than anything.

Dean huffs and feels guilty, even though he really shouldn’t. After dinner last night, Sam had made a show of saying he was getting ready for bed, and Dean’s watched enough porno to know how _that_ particular thing goes, so he insisted on staying up. Sam looked reluctant at first, and it fed right into Dean’s complex. Worrying or disappointing any version of Sam is hard, even if this current version wants to fuck him.

_God_.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says as he slowly gets up. His back is _killing_ him. “I lost track of time, fell asleep. Sorry.”

He tacks on the ‘sorry’ at the last minute, but it seems to placate Sam enough. “It’s okay, but sleeping here can’t be good for your back, Dean.”

Dean wants to ask what he’s talking about, but then he remembers his failed attempt at gauging the extent to which this world is like his own. “Uh, it actually feels better to sleep here. The... stiffness really straightens it all out.”

"You slept through breakfast again, but I didn’t have time to make anything.”

There’s no annoyance in Sam’s voice, but Dean feels apologetic all the same. “Sorry about that, man.”

Sam shakes his head and shrugs on his jacket. Dean didn’t really notice in the midst of the chaos the day before, but Sam’s suits are much nicer than the ones he uses for hunts. It sort of hits him then that Sam’s an actual lawyer. He’s accomplished here what he wanted to do but Dean prevented him from doing.

Sam jostles him out of his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

The gesture is familiar enough to relax Dean, but he tenses right back up when Sam caresses down his arm before drawing away. It’s such an intimate move, and it makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stand up and goosebumps break out across his skin. He leans away instinctively, and Sam frowns down at him again.

Coughing to cover the awkwardness of the situation, Dean nods to nothing in particular. Sam looks mildly hurt, but chooses not to say anything. He answers Dean’s nod with one of his own and grabs his briefcase from the floor and heads to the door.

Just as Sam’s going out the door, Dean remembers something. “Uh, Sam?” Sam stops and turns around and look expectantly back at him. “How am I supposed to cook tonight? I... I’ve gotta go to work.”

Dean meant to say it definitively, but it ends up sounding like a question. Good thing too, because Sam laughs at him.

“Marathoning _The Biggest Loser_ and sending me dirty texts during my lunch break isn’t "work", Dean, no matter what you say.” 

The sound of Sam shutting the door is the only thing that snaps Dean out of his completely dumbfounded shock.

 

 

He’s a _househusband_.

The revelation is almost more unbelievable than him being married to his brother. He’s a _hunter_ , a _ladies’ man,_ he’s _Dean friggin’ Winchester_ , not a desperate housewife.

He fumes over it for a long time while watching _Hell’s Kitchen_ and eating a bag of chocolate-covered peanuts he found while rifling through the fridge. When the irony of the situation hits him, he angrily slams the near-empty bag down on the table and paces. 

It’s been two days since he’s been here, though there’s no way of knowing that’s an accurate passage of time. The magic the witch was using is still unknown, but it mimicked a Djinn close enough for Dean to be unsure if it’s actually been two days or just two hours.

He could go searching for useful stuff in the study again, but that would just keep his hands busy, wouldn’t actually get him anywhere. He curses himself aloud for not getting the password to the laptop out of Sam. He’s stuck here again with no resources, no plan. He can’t even go the public library like he and Sam used to do back before they had the entirety of the Men of Letters bunker at the fingertips.

After doing a cursory scan around the house (it’s been obviously well-maintained, and Dean can’t help but wonder if that’s Sam’s doing or his own), Dean stops dead in front of the driveway where the familiar black gleam of his Baby sits proud and pretty.

“ _Baby_ ,” Dean breathes reverently as he jogs over to run a hand over her shiny hood. She’s been kept well, looks as if she’s been washed recently, and it feels Dean with a sense of calm. She’s the most familiar thing he’s seen so far — well, the most familiar thing that hasn’t tried to attack him lips first, anyway. She steels his resolve, and he gratefully grazes a hand over her chrome finishes.

“Don’t worry, Baby,” Dean says up to the clouds. “Daddy’s coming.”

As if in answer, his stomach growls.

Well, having dinner first can’t hurt.

 

 

Dean is so distracted by the spaghetti he’s making he doesn’t even hear the front door open. It’s only the soft “Dean?” that gets him to turn around.

Sam sets his briefcase down heavily on the dinner table and starts to shrug off his jacket. Dean keeps his eyes on the sauce bubbling in the pot, but watches Sam out the corner of his eye, more out of curiosity than anxiousness. His shoulders do tense slightly when Sam comes over to see what he’s cooking, but that’s only because Dean hates it when people do that.

“Oh man, that smells good. Spaghetti? I love spaghetti. Is that garlic bread I smell?” Sam inhales deeply and hums appreciatively. 

Dean can’t help but grin with pride as he adds another dash oregano to the sauce. “Yep. I even made salad.” He gestures with his chin to the bowl of leafy greens on the counter, though it’s more croutons than anything else. Sam snorts and shakes his head in fond disbelief, and Dean’s answering grin comes easily. 

Sam walks over to the pseudo-salad and grabs a crouton to pop in his mouth as he loosens his tie. “Well, you’re certainly feeling better. Jesus, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble!”

Dean shrugs and brings the wooden stirring spoon to his lips for a taste. Perfect. “Eh, it was no trouble at all.”

Actually, it was a whole lot of trouble, if Dean’s being honest. After discovering his Baby in the garage, he’d felt so good he decided to make dinner. Turns out that was easier said than done, because he has no idea where anything in this house was. The original plan was to make loaded potatoes, which he’d been craving distantly since he woke up, but after a solid half hour of searching through a whole grocery store’s worth of food (they’d never had this much food at once, not even in the bunker, and that had a _real_ refrigerator instead of a crappy, glorified motel cooler) he’d decided to take the ingredients he did see and make something simple.

“Could you get the plates?” Dean asks after a few moments of strangely companionable silence. Sam hums an affirmation around a mouthful of croutons and bends to rummage through the bottom cabinet. Ah, so _that’s_ where they are.

“Like what you see?” Sam teases when he turns around. Dean blinks at him uncomprehendingly before he realizes what Sam’s implying, then his face lights up like it’s on fire and he quickly turns his gaze back to the pot of sauce. 

He wasn’t checking Sam out — well, he was, but not in a _weird_ way, and the fact that Sam _took it_ in a weird way is a reminder of how fucked up things are here. In this world, Dean’s supposed to check Sam out in a sexy way. He’s supposed to look at Sam’s ass for reasons other than him having just sat in gum.

_God_ , but things are so fucked up.

Clearing his throat, Dean ducks his head down further and hopes Sam will chalk up the red flush to his cheeks to the steam. “Uh, dinner’s almost ready. Just gotta strain the noodles and get the bread out of the oven.”

“I’ll help,” Sam says as he sets two identical plates on the dinner table and doubles back. He brushes against Dean when he picks up the pot of noodles to strain them in the sink, and whether it was intentional or not makes Dean jittery. It’s new, this feeling of being uncomfortable around Sam. Even when they’re fighting, either clawing at each other’s throats or giving each other cold shoulders harsh enough to burn, Dean’s never felt this skin-crawling feeling whenever Sam touches him. It only steels his resolve to get out of here, fast.

Dinner is an odd affair. Once they sit down, Dean’s almost afraid Sam will break out into prayer to bless the food, but thankfully the creep factor of this world doesn’t extend there. Sam digs into his dinner with more vigor than the real Sam did, and Dean’s so caught in awe of it that he almost forgets to eat his own meal.

“So, we were at the meeting for lunch, and we’re all sitting down with these big shot contributors. I’m talking three-piece suits, Rolex watches that cost more than our house, the whole nine. You would have hated these guys, Dean.”

Dean hums noncommittally around a forkful of spaghetti. Amazingly, he’s actually interested in this story. Back when Sam went to Stanford, in the moments between hunts and trying to forget Sam even existed, Dean would imagine he’d become a big shot lawyer with a wife and 2.5 kids, and he’d tell stories about his time around the office. _Water cooler stories_ , he’d heard them called before. Sam is telling water cooler stories.

Sam laughs at something and shakes his head. “We’re in this room with all these snobs whose egos we have to stroke so they’ll donate some of their penthouse funds to help us combat deforestation. I know, how charitable of them, right? So, halfway into the meeting, Parker shows up late, sweating like a dog — I told you about his new eco-friendly “biking to work” thing, right? — and he’s got this giant plastic container of food,” Sam sets his fork down to make a gigantic circle with his hands. Dean nearly chokes trying to cover up his laughter. “And we don’t know if the guy’s red in the face because he just biked 12 miles to work at age 40, or if it’s because he’s literally knocking into everyone on his way to an available seat. When he finally sits down, he opens the container and, god, the smell of onion just _floods_ the conference room. Apparently Darlene made her world famous “onion casserole surprise” for lunch that day.” 

Sam stops to double over laughing, and Dean tries to hide his grin behind his glass of water. It’s a stupid, cheesy day-at-the-office story, but Sam’s laughter is so genuine and infectious, Dean physically can’t help but feel a little giddy himself.

When Sam finally stops laughing, he’s a little red in the cheeks but the smile doesn’t leave his face. “Surprisingly, we still got their donations. I guess ‘onion casserole surprise’ is like perfume to big wig baby seal clubbers.”

“Jesus,” Dean says on a light laugh. Sam’s smile turns from amused to something that makes Dean’s stomach flip uneasily. They finish the rest of the meal in a silence that’s fortunately companionable.

After dinner peppered with more office stories and easy jokes between them, Dean gets up and goes to collect the plates. When he reaches for Sam’s plate, Sam grabs his wrist, startling him back.

A smooth smile spread across Sam’s face like molasses. “Hey, how about we leave the dishes for later?”

Dean blinks at where Sam is still holding his wrist. “Um, I guess we could, but —”

The soft swipe of Sam’s thumb across the skin of his wrist sends warning bells clanging in Dean’s mind and he jerks his hand back on instinct. Sam looks confused, then hurt, hand still raised from where he was grasping Dean’s wrist a second ago.

The look on Sam’s face makes something twist unpleasantly in Dean’s stomach, so he quickly moves to smooth over the situation. “Uh, I’m just really tired is all. I feel a headache coming on, too.”

The excuse is lame and makes Dean really feel like a woman. By the expression on Sam’s face, it’s just as believable as Dean thought.

Graciously, Sam doesn’t call him out on it. “Okay,” he says on a nod. “You should go to bed then. I’ll do the dishes.”

The thought of going to bed — the same bed Sam will be sleeping in, _right next to him_  — makes Dean’s skin crawl, but thanks to his previous lie there’s no way he can protest and offer to do the dishes to stall now. He nods awkwardly at Sam’s back where he’s settled near the sink with slumped shoulders.

Dean stands uncomfortably looking at Sam where he’s filling the sink with his wrist still warm from the grip of Sam’s hand. He stands still for a few beats before turning to slowly make his way toward the bedroom. It feels like a death march. 

“The spice garden is dying,” Sam says in an off-handed way. His voice is so quiet Dean doesn’t think it would carry if the house wasn’t so quiet.

Dean pauses briefly, but he doesn’t know what to say to that, or if he’s even expected to say anything at all.

 

 

Dean dreams that he’s locked in a tall, glass box teetering on the edge of a cliff, as vines from pepper plants slowly rise to wrap around the box, until the glass shatters under their pressure.

He wakes in a cold sweat, heart pounding like he's just run a marathon.

Realizing Sam's arms are around him, he set off frantically removing himself from the tentacle web of Sam’s arms, beet red and heart pounding. All the movement jostles Sam awake, who asks him what’s wrong. Dean tells him it’s nothing, just a bad dream, but his heart takes too long to slow back down.

Sam doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press it. He sits up further in the bed causing the sheet to dip lower, and fuck, Dean really hopes he’s wearing underwear. 

“What do you feel like doing today, baby?” Sam asks him with a voice thick with sleep. Dean barely flinches at the pet name, which is concerning in and of itself. He’s been in this backwards universe too goddamn long.

Sam’s tone sounds casual enough, but Dean’s not 100% sure he’s not gunning for some early morning delight. “Um, I... I thought I’d fix up the garden.” The garden excuse is a godsend, though he barely remembers to invoke it.

Thankfully, that idea actually puts a smile on Sam’s face. “That sounds great, Dean. I think I’ll join you.”

Well, that won’t do. “Really? Don’t you have to go to work?”

The look Sam shoots him tells him he’s fucked up. Oops. “No, it’s Sunday, remember?”

Dean pretends to realize his mistake. “Oh, shit, that’s right. Sorry, I forgot it was Sunday.”

 

 

The spice garden does look pitifully neglected, and Dean can’t help but feel a small twinge of remorse at the sight of it in all its limp and gray glory.

Sam puts his hands on his hips and gives a low whistle. “You’ve certainly seen better days.”

Sam’s actually _speaking_ to the damn thing. Dean doesn’t laugh, but it’s a conscious effort.

Maybe Sam’s weird hippie vibe is rubbing off on him, because he finds himself thinking about how perfect the weather is right now for gardening. Scowling to himself, he picks up a hoe and stands in front of the garden, completely lost.

Sam’s on his knees, gloves already buried in dirt. “I’ll start with the black peppercorns, you can take the ginger, and we’ll work our way down.”

Dean nods absently. He has a vague idea of what ginger looks like, and most of the other stuff in the plot look completely alien to him.

Dean starts moving slowly down the garden, covertly scanning each section of spices to see if any of them match the version of ginger he has filed away in his mind. Eventually, he sees a clump of dirt-covered, gnarled looking roots that looks sort of like the pictures of ginger he saw once in a gardening magazine at a doctor’s office once, and sets to work pulling at those.

“Ginger looks good,” Sam calls from the other end of the garden. “I could probably whip up some candied ginger with those. I think the chilies needs CPR, though.”

Dean has to physically stop himself from gawking at the sheer _pansiness_ of this conversation. He clears his throat and shrugs in response. “Uh, yeah. Totally.”

Sam stares at him with a look Dean can’t comprehend, but makes him squirm with the force of its scrutiny anyway. Dean turns back to pulls at the dirt-covered ginger, still not exactly sure what he’s doing, but the faint scent coming from the roots smells good.

At the end, Sam’s done most of the tending while Dean’s only really completed the ginger, and almost mutilated the saffron (which really isn’t his fault, because they look more like flowers than actual food). Both he and Sam are covered in dirt and sweating, but there’s a sort of satisfaction in the ache in Dean’s shoulders when he looks at the baskets of spices they've pulled.

Sam grins down at their handiwork. “Not too bad a harvest, huh?”

Dean nods, surprised at how genuine his agreement feels. “Yeah, not too bad.”

All and all, gun to his head, Dean would actually call the day _enjoyable_. Bland, monotonous work citizens do have never really been anything Dean has seen himself doing, but he can’t deny how enjoyable this was.

He’s not going to get used to it, though. This isn’t where he belongs, and when he gets back to his real home there won’t be any need for saffron and candied ginger.

 

 

Dean only manages to avoid being roped into a shower with Sam by the skin of his teeth. He anxiously pulls the basket of reaped spices to his chest as a barrier between them and babbles incoherently about needing to wash them. Sam looks at him doubtfully, a hint of genuine anger in his eyes, before mumbling an affirmative and slipping off to shower, alone.

By the time Sam’s hopped out of the shower and Dean’s taken his own, Sam is in the living room pulling on a pair of running shoes. Almost subconsciously, Dean’s eyes run over the bulge of Sam’s biceps in his sleeves tee. This Sam has down time, Dean realizes. This Sam probably works out in ways that doesn’t just include chasing after, or being chased after, wendigos or werewolves. This Sam probably has time to just casually go to the gym, whenever he feels like it.

“Like what you see?” Sam asks teasingly again when he catches Dean’s eyes on him.

Heat flares across Dean’s face. “What? No.”

Dean’s tone is unintentionally harsh, and Sam’s flirtatious smile drops quickly. It’s awkward after that, and after the silence stretches on Dean decides to fill it. “Where are you going?”

Sam finishes lacing up his shoes and stands up. “Gym.”

His tone is curt enough to make Dean flinch and back out of the way when he passes through to grab a gym bag against the wall. “Isn’t it a little late to go to the gym?”

Sam turns and looks at him like he just asked if the moon was made of cheese. “Uh, it’s Sunday, Dean.”

Dean blinks. “Yeah?”

Sam studies his face incredulously. “Yeah, babe. Sunday. Y’know, bridge night? ‘No annoyingly long-haired husbands allowed’ bridge club, according to Meg?”

This conversation continues to not make any sense to Dean. “Meg?”

Sam heaves a frustrated sigh. “Okay, okay, hahaha. I’m not playing this game with you. I’ll be back in about an hour. Say hi to the girls for me.”

Sam leaves briskly after that, and it takes a few minutes for Dean to notice he didn’t try to kiss him goodbye.

 

 

“Bridge club” consists of two women in their late 50s, Meg, and a bag of weed.

When Meg first showed up at the door, it took all of Dean’s willpower not to grab the nearest sharp object and hold it to her throat. She looks almost exactly as he remembered her back when she was looking after Cas in the loony bin.

Cas, ironically, is who she waved to in the car she came in once she barreled her way through the door.

“Ante up, ladies,” Meg says on an exhale of smoke. Miriam and Leona both throw two recipe scarps — which is apparently what they’re using as currency here — into the pit of the table where a used book of Joanna's coupons, a harlequin novel with a raunchy cover, and two joints currently stand as the betting pool.

“I can’t believe this,” Dean murmurs to himself for the fortieth time since the game started.

“I can’t believe you didn’t make snacks,” Meg retorts as she throws a battered-looking book of coupons into the pit.

Miriam hums in agreement. “I’m certainly craving some of Sam’s candied ginger right about now.”

Leona giggles like a school girl. “Maybe Dean _held him up_ from making it?”

“I can’t believe this,” Dean repeats.

“How’ve you been, dear? It seems like so long since we had our last bridge night.” Miriam says. The smile she’s giving him is warm enough, but Dean can spot a poker face a mile away, and the cracks in her facade tell him she’s got a pretty good hand.

Dean shrugs and eyes his cards. He has no fucking idea what he’s doing. “Uh, I’ve been good, y’know. Good.”

Miriam hums and tries not to smile at her hand. “That’s good, sweetie. How’re things with Sam?”

Meg rolls her eyes in what Dean is pretty sure is a covert attempt to get a look at Miriam’s hand. “Jesus, woman, you sure do love your dirty gossip, don’t you?”

Dean can feel the back of his neck burning. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he pretends to be engrossed in his hand. “Um, we’re good. Sam’s good.”

All three women pause and stare at Dean as if he’s just grown two extra heads. Dean has to stop himself from actually checking (because, really, at this point anything is possible). “What?” He asks self-consciously.

Leona clears her throat and lays down a card. “Nothing, dear. It’s just —”

“Usually you’d be midway into a story about the color of Sam’s eyes by now,” Meg pipes up.

“Well, yes.” Leona shrugs.

Dean can feel himself starting to burn up. He looks down at his hand and rearranges his cards to preoccupy himself. “So, uh, got any threes?”

“What?” Miriam asks, bewildered. 

“Are you and Sam having problems, dear?” Leona asks with a soft tone. Miriam and Meg turn their complete attention onto him.

Dean coughs and shakes his head. “No! What — no. No, of course not. We’re fine, okay? Didn’t anyone hear me say we’re fine?”

Miriam nods sadly. “We did, dearie. That’s how we know you’re _not_ fine.”

“It’s okay if you two are having troubles, that happens in all marriages,” Leona says. “Preston and I hit a rough patch a couple of years ago. If anything, it has only made us stronger.”

Miriam nods in agreement. “Same thing happened with me and Tom. No marriage is perfect.”

Everyone turns their attention to Meg in expectation then, even Dean. They’ve pretty much abandoned the game at this point anyway. 

Meg snorts and waves them off with a wave of her hand. “Castiel and I don’t have problems. It just doesn’t happen. We live, we have sex, and he does what he’s told. There’s no room for problems there.”

Dean groans. He didn’t need to hear any of that. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

Leona reaches over and pats him comfortingly on the arm. “Whatever is going on between the two of you, I’m sure you’ll work it out. You love each other very much.”

Dean feels his stomach roll and his chest tighten at the words. He looks down at the table and clears his throat. “Uh, thanks. Thank you.”

Meg grins at her hand and pats Dean roughly in the shoulder with the other one. “Yeah, you’ll work through your problems with Sam. Leona’s problem with me, however, is not gonna work out well. Say goodbye to those chili recipes, bitch!”

 

 

Sam comes back home not long after Meg, Leona, and Miriam have said their goodbyes. The event, while beyond bizarre, actually ended up being fairly enjoyable. Dean didn’t get either of the joints, which was what he was aiming for, but he got the novel out of the game, and even though it’s nothing anything he would ever willingly read in his life, the simple fact that it was won makes is valuable.

He was using it as a coaster for his beer while settling in for a few TiVo’d episodes of _Space Dandy_ when two large hands suddenly began to massage his shoulders.

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, and it’s only Sam’s amused chuckles that eases his worries that he’s not about to be strangled to death in this alternate dimension.

Sam crosses around the couch to sit by him, close enough so that their thighs and arms are touching. Dean flinches and shifts instinctively away from Sam. The noise that comes out of Sam’s mouth — angry boar meets dying bird — startles Dean almost out of his seat.

“What is your _problem_ , Dean?” Sam stands up quickly to loom over him. 

Dean fights the urge to curl in on himself from the force of Sam’s anger. “What? I don’t — there’s no problem.”

Sam barks a surprised laugh completely void of humor. “No problem? Really, that’s your answer?”

It feels like there’s a spotlight on Dean. “Um... yeah. Yes.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Usually you’re insatiable, now I can’t even get you to sit next to me for five minutes without you tensing up like I’m going to _molest you_ or something.”

Well, that can’t be denied. Guilt pierces through Dean and he drops his gaze to the floor, unable to look at Sam. 

He hears Sam inhale harshly. “Could you just.... _look at me_ , Dean. Please.”

Dean’s eyes snap up to meet Sam's on request. The anger in Sam’s voice is greatly subverted by the look of pleading in his wide, heartbroken eyes. “Just — tell me who it is. I won’t get mad, I won’t track them down, I just need to know who it is.”

Dean stares at Sam in astonishment. There’s a feeling of confusion, then a tight feeling in his chest. Sam thinks he’s... oh, god. 

“Hey,” Dean says, standing up with one hand extended toward Sam in a ‘be cool’ motion. “Hey, no. None of that.”

Sam shakes his head and takes a step back from him, and it shouldn’t feel like a punch to Dean’s gut, but it does. He looks so distraught, so utterly wrecked that Dean feels angry on his behalf. The thought of someone Sam loves cheating on him, making him look as completely broken as he does now, fills him with hot anger. Even if the person supposedly cheating on him is _Dean_.

“Seriously, Sam,” Dean says, desperately searching for something, anything, to get that look off of Sam’s face.

“I’m smart enough to know when —”

“It’s really not what you —”

“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t —”

“You’re being completely —”

“Just _stop_ , Dean!” Sam barks, effectively shutting Dean up. “Just... stop. It’s okay, really. I mean, I’ve been thinking about this for a while and it’s okay. If... if you need someone else to — we can work that out. I mean, open marriages are –”

“I have erectile dysfunction.” Dean blurts out.

Time seems to slow to a halt. Sam’s arms, which were waving up in vaguely stilted gestures, drop to his sides as if his strings have been cut. They stare at one another, wide eyes and open mouths mirroring one another. On screen, a Viagra commercial comes on.

“You have.. you — what?” Sam asks with a strangled voice after a long stretch of silence.

Dean is already regretting his lie, even though at the time it seemed the most plausible explanation that wouldn’t seem suspicious or make Sam feel inadequate. “I... have erectile dysfunction, Sam. That’s why I’ve been so... distant lately. It,” Dean waves in the general vicinity of his crotch, “doesn’t work. So, it’s nothing to do with you at all. Really.”

Sam stares at him blankly before bursting into laughter. Dean blushes right up to his ears and pulls his lips into a sneer. “Don’t _laugh_ , Sam!”

Sam shakes his head and waves his hands in a stopping gesture. “No, no, I’m not laughing at you, Dean, honest. It’s just — you have _erectile dysfunction_. This whole time I thought you were... and you just had _erectile dysfunction_.”

Dean doesn’t think it sounds very funny, but he doesn’t say anything. He gets it; Sam’s not laughing at his broken dick, Sam’s laughing in relief. Soon enough, his laughter dies down and is replaced with a look of anger. 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Dean opens up his mouth to fling out another excuse but Sam holds his hands up in a silent ‘save it.' “I get it, you probably felt embarrassed, but Dean, this is _serious_. There could be something really wrong with you. You can’t just hide that kind of stuff because you’re ashamed.”

Dean does his best to look remorseful, and it must work because Sam’s anger melts away into a fond, if exhausted, smile. He mumbles an apology and doesn’t flinch away when Sam bridges the gap between them to wrap him in a hug. It feels kind of nice, anyway. Even if this isn’t the real Sam, the warmth and familiarity of the embrace is comforting.

A hand comes up to rub Dean’s back in soothing circles and he tenses involuntarily. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get through this, Dean, don’t worry.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around Sam’s in return and tries to pretend it’s all platonic.

 

 

Sam insists on taking him to a clinic the following Sunday. Dean resists as much as he can, knowing there’s no way his fake illness can withstand medical scrutiny, but he ends up dragged to Henriksen & Harvelle Health Clinic first thing Sunday morning anyway.

If Dean didn’t think this place was fucked up beyond belief already, seeing the fucking Trickster as his doctor certainly cements the fact.

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever,” he squints at Gabriel’s name tag and oh, _Christ_. “Dr. Feelgood?”

Gabriel doesn’t look up from what he’s scribbling on his clipboard. “Please don’t make fun of my name. It’s not my fault your knob doesn’t turn.”

Dean blushes a deep crimson and he grits out an angry “Hey!” at Gabriel’s passé form.

Above, a calm nurse’s voice comes on the crackling speaker, “Paging Dr. Feelgood.”

Dean throws his hands up in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be fucking with me.”

Gabriel snaps his pen in a definitive manner and gets up from his stool. “No one’s going to be fucking you because your dick is broken,” he replies easily.

It takes Sam’s hand on his shoulder to keep Dean from circumcising the guy’s face with his own scalpel. He sits back and grumbles to himself with arms folded while Sam takes the pill prescription from Gabriel.

“So he just has to take these and he’ll be better? There’s nothing wrong with him?” Sam asks, still in his mother hen mode.

Gabriel nods. “That’ll do it. If he takes these and nothing changes within two weeks, come back and we’ll run some tests. Or, get a new boyfriend who has all his parts in order.”

Dean storms out of the hospital with his face still burning. “We should sue that fucker for malpractice.”

“He didn’t mess up anything, Dean.”

“Still, he violated his hypocritical oath or something.”

“Hippocratic.”

“What?”

“It’s the Hippocratic Oath. ‘Do no harm’ and all that.”

“Well, I’m gonna do harm right in that fucker’s face next time I see him. I want a different doctor.”

Sam raises his hands helplessly after getting in the car. “It’s a free clinic, Dean. You don’t exactly get to pick your doctor.”

"Shut up, Sam."

 

 

In the following days after the doctor’s visit, Sam is a lot more lenient.

He lets Dean sleep in later, which usually ends up in Sam picking up a greasy breakfast on his route to work. On top of that, he also offers to cook when he gets home (which Dean will politely decline, for both their sakes).

The change is a little overwhelming at first. It’s almost like the first day there, which by this point seems to have been ages ago. Dean feels off-kilter, nervous, and on-edge. Partially because it’s all knew, and the affection is alien.

Mostly because he likes it, and that’s getting harder to deny.

“Hey,” Sam says softly to him a few weeks later after they’ve brushed their teeth. The habit of doing nightly rituals next to Sam isn't one Dean can shake. “How you feelin’?”

Dean shrugs and slips into his side of the covers as Sam does the same on his own. “Ah, all right, I guess.”

Sam nods and doesn’t reply, just continues to stare at him, assessing. Dean burrows under the covers and drops his gaze from Sam’s. He’s suddenly aware of the quiet in the room, and how close Sam is.

“Is the — is your stuff working?” Sam says it like he’s asking, well, like he’s asking if Dean’s dick is working now.

Dean hasn’t actually been taking the pills. He did take one the first time he got them, purely out of a morbid curiosity. That landed him in a very tight, uncomfortable position wherein he had to convince Sam the reason he was doubled over in bed was because of spoiled Thai food. Since then, he’d mostly been throwing them away.

He doesn’t want Sam to worry or become suspicious though, so he clears his throat and nods. “I... think so, yeah.”

Sam nods and silence falls over them again. The light is still on, and Dean isn’t actually tired, but he closes his eyes anyway. He feels off somehow, but he’s certain it’s nothing a few hours of shut eye can’t fix.

Just as he’s finally drifting, he hears Sam tentatively call his name. When he opens his eyes, a whiny retort already at his lips, he’s frozen by how close Sam suddenly is to him. He stares up into Sam’s cloudy eyes almost like he’s mesmerized.

Sam licks his lips and sigh out shakily. “Dean, can I...”

Sam doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he leans in slow enough for Dean to move ( _and, god, why isn’t he moving?_ ) and closes the distance between them with a soft, questioning kiss.

Dean lies completely still under Sam’s chaste, unhurried lips until Sam pulls away. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and swallows around the lump in his throat. Sam is staring down at him with searching, slightly sad eyes.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. He brings a hand up to Dean’s hair and pets him softly. “We can try again some other time.”

Sam pulls back from Dean and leaves a stale, cold air in replace his solid, warm presence was and Dean quickly reaches up to pull Sam back down again. He swallows Sam’s yelp with a kiss, fierce and forceful.

It doesn’t take long for Sam to recover, and soon they’re kissing passionately, mouths open and tongues gliding against each other. Despite the urgency, there’s still a shyness to the way Sam runs his hands down Dean’s sides, and how Dean thread his fingers through Sam’s hair. The shyness gradually gives way to something else. Something hungrier, more desperate.

Sam pulls back to spread kisses across Dean’s chin and neck and nibble at his ear. Dean closes his eyes and wraps his arms more firmly around Sam. It’s like every nerve ending in his body is hardwired to respond to Sam. Like Sam is the very thing giving him life at this moment. 

“Dean,” Sam pants. “Dean, look at me, please.”

Dean’s eyes fly open to see Sam lean up to pull his shirt off and discard it, and he drinks in his fill of Sam’s tanned, firm skin with a slightly awed expression. He runs his hands across Sam’s biceps, over his stomach and sides and finally down to the bulge in his sweatpants. Sam gasps and groans, fists flexing at his sides.

He tugs down Sam’s sweatpants to free his cock, which is already hard and glistening at the tip. The overwhelming urge to taste Sam is nearly all-consuming, and he licks his lips as he jacks the hard flesh softly in his palm. When he’s summoned enough courage to do it, he shimmies down the bed and he leans in to take Sam in his mouth, only to be stopped with a gentle hand to the shoulder.

Dean looks up questioningly at Sam who smiles down sheepishly at him. “I don’t want this. I mean, I do want this, but I — it’s been a long time, and I don’t think I can last long enough to. Need to be inside you, Dean.”

The words send a shiver down Dean’s spine in all he can do is croak out, “Yeah, Sammy. Please.”

Sam gets their clothes off with quick, clumsy hands. Dean tries to catalogue every inch of Sam’s skin as it’s exposed to him, as if this is the last time. By the time Sam has lubed himself up and stretched Dean, his mind has been reduced to nothing more than Sam’s face, Sam’s smell, and Sam’s name.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean breathes out like a prayer as Sam slowly rocks inside him. They’re connected in the most intimate of ways, and Dean feels so overwhelmed with it he might actually go insane.

“Dean,” Sam answers back, leaning in to capture Dean in another breath-stealing kiss Dean’s already grown addicted to. “ _Dean_.”

 

 

The first time Dean saw Sam at Stanford, he was nearly floored by how different the man standing in front of him looked from the little brother whose cheeks he used to wipe splattered baby food from.

It was an observation that blind-sided him almost as much as the pretty, politely smiling blonde on his arm. The full force of the situation, of Sam’s knitted brows and his hand around that girl’s waist, that forced his hand to blurt, “Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days.”

Through the next few years of pain and angst and loss, the nagging notion of how much Sam has changed. Most of the time how much he’s changed because of what Dean had dragged him through, but there was also the undeniable fact that while Dean wasn't looking, little Sammy grew up. He was a man now, and the soft affection Dean had carried for him in his childhood and awkward adolescence had shifted into something different, something ugly.

When he came to the revelation that his feelings toward his brother weren’t normal or natural it wasn’t some big, heart stopping revelation. It was a couple of months after being brought back from Hell that he looked over at Sam and thought _I’m in love with my brother_.

The rest of that day was spent doubled over the cracked toilet in the mold-infested bathroom of whatever dirt cheap motel they were holed up in that week. He felt sick with it, the thought of wanting his little brother, the same little brother he held and protected and destroyed. And goddammit, he was sick, but he _never_ touched Sam in his life, felt anger and shame and like itching out of his skin with even the mere thought, but he still felt damned all the same. Thick waves of guilt sent nausea through his body, rolled his stomach and made him purge in what felt like penance. A punishment hotter and fresher than Hell itself. 

By the time Dean had composed himself, gave some mumbling excuse about bad takeout in the direction of Sam’s pinched face of concern, it felt like Dean had been purified. If not completely scrubbed clean, he at least felt _cleaner_. 

In the years after, from Ruby to Sam jumping into the Cage, to Purgatory and beyond, it was almost back to normal, or what passed as normal, anyway. They bickered, they fought, they yelled and reconciled and tore apart and mended back together again. Dean fucked nameless women — and men, when he could get away with it — and watched Sam kiss the girls with a neutrality almost painstakingly calculated. Life went on, it got hard, and then impossible, and somehow worse from there, but it went on. 

Looking back now, Dean can’t marry the idea of himself, _that_ Dean from _then_ , with the one cultivated in this world. Back there, Dean is a pathetic fuck up made of tarnished pieces of his father and everyone he’s ever let down. He submerges himself in hunts and chases the cold thrill of self-destruction with warm whisky and cheap liquor. He broods and pines for his baby brother. He tarnishes everything he touches and buries so much of himself under pop cultured sarcasm and movie-borrowed wit because no one could stand him otherwise.

But here he’s different. Here Dean Winchester has a home with pictures on the walls instead of dollar store motel art, and a fucking spice garden in the backyard. He has bridge night with friends and fucking _financial stability_. He's happy, and that's something the real Dean Winchester couldn't comprehend if he damn well tried.

 

 

On Monday morning, Dean wakes up before Sam’s alarm to make breakfast.

When Sam stumbles into the kitchen, blurry eyed and tousled, Dean chuckles out a mocking “Morning, handsome,” and kisses him, morning breath barely a passing thought. The glassy, bewildered look on Sam’s face and the way the corners of his mouth twitch up hesitantly in the seconds after warm Dean all over.

“I’m making pancakes and eggs,” Dean says as he turns back to the stove. “Coffee’s almost done, too. If you wanna have time to eat you better hop in the shower now, Sammy.”

Dean focuses his attention on carefully flipping the pancakes, but he can feel Sam hovering behind him in confusion. After a few beats, Dean hears him cough out a thick “Um, yeah,” and then the sound of fading footsteps.

Dean sighs quietly and grins down at the pancakes.

When Sam gets out, he seems a little less frazzled and more tentatively interactive. Dean asks him about work while they eat, and Sam gives short, hesitant answers that grow longer and more animated as breakfast goes on. By the time they’ve cleared their plates, Dean’s cheeks hurt from laughing so much.

After the awkward limbo of dancing around one another while picking up plates, Dean bats Sam away from the dishwasher and loads it up himself. “I didn’t have time to make you lunch, sorry,” Dean says. “I’ll let you pick what we’ll have for dinner tonight to make up for it, how about that?”

Sam blinks at him, clearly feeling out of the loop here. “Uh, chicken?”

A grin spreads across Dean’s face automatically. Of course he’d choose chicken.

“You got it.”

Sam nods absently, a smile slowly spreading across his face. Dean closes the dishwasher and turns to face Sam, who’s still standing next to him with that small, fond smile on his face.

“Work?” Dean asks with teasing tone.

Sam looks at him uncomprehendingly for a few seconds before jolting into awareness. “Oh, right!” Sam bolts into the living room and comes back moments later, briefcase in hand.

After a few seconds of Sam standing there and not saying anything, Dean awkwardly breeches the silence. “Ah, good luck. Have a good day, dude.”

Sam doesn’t even look perturbed by his supposed husband calling him “dude.” He smiles at Dean and gives a short nod. “Thanks.”

Sam continues to stand there awkwardly, and Dean’s just in the juncture of annoyed and amused enough to make a scathing comment when Sam leans over and presses a short peck to his lips. He pulls back quickly and looks nervous, feet shuffling awkwardly. Dean bites down the urge to touch his lips, and gives a small, almost shy smile.

“Bye,” Sam says.

Dean nods and lets his smile widen into a grin. “Bye.”

After Sam leaves for work, Dean stands there with that grin on his face like a fucking girl for a few minutes, then kicks into gear to set off doing chores. He cleans the kitchen, then their bathroom (because Sam always leaves his hair care products all over the damn sink, even in the real world), then changes into some raggedy clothes to tend the garden.

By the time 1 o’clock rolls around, Dean’s weeded the garden, taken a shower, and is propped up in front of the TV watching _Cake Boss_ when Meg calls, telling him she and the girls are going to test out the new mini craps table Miriam’s nephew got her, and would he like to come over?

Dean ends up losing the Harlequin novel he won in bridge, but wins two of Meg’s JoAnna’s coupons and Leona’s homemade butterscotch recipe (which he’s pretty sure she just copied out of a magazine, but doesn’t say so out loud). They play, and bicker, and laugh, and by mid-afternoon when Meg’s several coupons in the hole and making the excuse of needing to get home, Leona looks up at him with a bright smile and says, “Well, you’re definitely feeling better.”

Dean smiles lopsidedly down at his winnings. He bets Sam will like the butterscotch. “Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better.”

He says his goodbyes to the girls and rushes home to make dinner before Sam gets home. After finishing dinner so quickly, he decides it _feels_ enough like a special occasion, so he pulls out all stops and makes banana pudding to fridge while he waits for Sam to come home. 

When Sam arrives, hair slightly mussed and tie halfway undone, looking like everything Dean’s ever wanted and could never have, he stares at the set table and lightly sniffs the air.

“Wow,” Sam says, right as Dean mumbles, “Welcome home.”

Dean tells Sam about Miriam’s new craps table and how much of a sore loser Meg is all with enthusiasm he’s surprised feels so genuine. Sam just nods along and laughs occasionally, gaze so focused on Dean with an overwhelming fondness that he hardly touches his dinner, even though it’s his favorite. 

When dinner’s finished, Dean swallows thickly and grabs Sam’s wrist when he goes to pick up his plate. “Leave it.”

Sam stares at him intensely, gaze assessing and slightly guarded, before he slowly nods. “Okay.”

They don’t kiss until they’re in the bedroom, and it’s awkward at first. Their lips don’t quite line up right, and Sam’s at too much of a weird angle for Dean to meet him properly, but after a few tries and nervous chuckles they get it right.

Dean slides his lips across Sam’s, melts into it as he pulls himself flush against him. Sam wraps his arms tightly around Dean’s middle and moans quietly into the kiss, which sends shockwaves up Dean’s spine and topples him over the edge of the bed, dragging Sam down on top of him.

Despite how frantic Dean feels, it isn’t rushed when Sam slips into him. Dean keeps his arms wrapped around Sam’s neck as Sam fills him up, expands into every empty space Dean has and makes them his own. They rock together smoothly, like they’ve been doing it all their lives. Like they’ve got the rest of their lives to do it.

Dean comes with Sam’s name a whisper of a prayer on his lips and closes his eyes in bliss when Sam spills inside him. They lie tangled together until their breathing evens out and the sweat on their skin cools tacky.

“I love you,” Sam whispers against his forehead with a tone that’s almost of wonder and disbelief.

“I love you, too,” Dean whispers back, and his heart aches with the truth of it.

He sleeps well that night for the first time in what feels like forever, Sam a cocoon of warmth and security around him.

 

 

When Dean wakes up, he sees his brother’s face.

He instantly knows it’s Sam, the _real_ Sam. It’s not the fact that he’s wearing a cheap suit, or that his hair is shorter, or that he's got dark circles lining his eyes. It’s because Dean knows Sam, and _this_ is Sam. 

The only thing unfamiliar about it all is the sharp feeling of disappointment piercing Dean’s gut.

“Dean?” Sam asks in a fragile whisper, like if he speaks too loudly he could blow Dean away like dust.

It takes a few tries, but Dean manages to croak out the “ _Sam_ ” stuck in his throat.

Sam’s tired eyes light up like Christmas morning and he shoots up from the bedside chair to stand by Dean’s bed.

“Dean, oh god, Dean.” He chokes and sounds like he’s about to cry.

Dean tries to say _Don’t wear it out, Sam_ but all that comes out is another small croak of Sam’s name. And another, and another.

Sam stares down at him in amazed disbelief for a few more seconds before he runs out of the room calling for a nurse.

 

The witch’s name was Sandra Larson. She was the youngest member of a coven on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, a sophomore at Woodrow Wilson High School, and the captain of the debate team. She had been using ancient magic — forbidden, even in her own coven — to prey on citizens of the city. They were right before: it did mimic djinn’s magic very closely. She would put classmates, mostly the ones who she felt had wronged her, under the spell and while they were out, would suck the life energy right out of their souls.

“It was a djinn rip-off, through and through. She created perfect fantasies for her victims based on their innermost dreams and desires to keep them stuck in their own heads. Only difference was the only way to wake them up was to destroy the personal item of the victim she kept as an anchor. Turns out she tore off a piece of your sleeve to act as yours. After I found out how the spell worked, I went back to the coven and torched it.”

Sam explains everything in a deceptively calm voice after the nurse checks Dean’s vitals and gets him a cup of water. He pauses to give Dean time to soak it all in with that _I’m here if you need to talk_ face usually reserved for bawling housewives. Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.

_She created perfect fantasies for her victims based on their innermost dreams and desires to keep them stuck in their heads_. He doesn’t want to think about that.

When he opens his eyes again, Sam is staring at him with wide eyes. It’s the same worried look the dream-Sam would give him when he’d act strange. The fact makes his chest clench tightly. “You kill her?”

Sam nods. “She was only human. I — I didn’t want to. She was just a kid, you know? But she tried to kill you, and when I stopped her she tried to kill me, so...”

“You didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” Dean reassures him with a small shake of his head. If he doesn’t stop Sam there, the guy’ll convince himself he’s single-handedly responsible for world hunger.

Sam looks like he wants to object, then thinks better of it and just nods.

“How long?” Dean asks in a voice hoarse from disuse. 

Sam doesn’t need clarification on what he means. “A week. I tried keeping you at the bunker for as long as I could, Dean, really, but I didn’t have a way to make you eat, or –”

“It’s fine, Sam, really.” Dean interrupts. Sam nods again and looks down.

Silence, falls over them, only permeated by the sound of Dean’s heart monitor beeping. It's neither comfortable nor companionable, and Dean doesn't want to think about that either.

 

 

Dean insists on getting back on the horse the second he’s out of the hospital. “Think of it as advance placement physical therapy,” he cracks to Sam’s disbelieving stare.

Sam acquiesces more quickly than usual, which Dean can only guess is probably because he feels guilty over what happened. It wasn’t Sam’s fault at all, but if it lets Dean plunge back into hunting headfirst with only a half-hearted lecture, Dean figures it’s a necessary evil.

And it’s easy getting back into his old life, all things considered. Dean was in that witch’s dreamland for what felt like a year, but it’s been easy to put it all behind him like it’s never happened. He’s already forgotten what it feels like to kiss Sam. Honestly, he would have thought it would be much harder to forget that.

They’re in a Texas bar celebrating a successful rougarou hunt when Sam corners him. “What did you see, Dean?”

Dean is buzzed, pleasantly so, so he only answers with an ineloquent. “Huh?”

Sam sighs like Dean is being exceptionally difficult and balls his hand into a fist on the table where the condensation from his water is pooling. Trust Sam to voluntarily ask for water at a bar. “The witch, Dean. When the witch put you under, what did you see?”

A flash of panic hits Dean, but he stamps it down quickly. “Nothing, Sam.”

Sam sighs harshly, like he was expecting that very response. “It wasn’t nothing. You’ve been a mess since you woke up in that hospital bed. You saw something there, and I want to know what it was.”

The small twinge of petulant annoyance Dean was feeling at the beginning of the conversation grows hot and bitter at the back of his throat. “It was _nothing_ , Sam. Look, I know you like to play Dr. Phil in your spare time and try to get me to talk about my _feelings_ , but I’m sorry to tell you there are no feelings to talk about. I haven’t changed one bit. I’m just tired.”

Sam snorts a divisive laugh that forces Dean to look up from the pool at Sam’s hand. “You’re just tired, huh? Tell me, Dean, when you came back from Hell and told me everything was fine with you, did you start having those nightmares because you were tired?” Dean’s hands curls into fists under the table as his heart starts pounding. “When you came back from purgatory and nearly pulled your gun out on everything that moved when we were talking down the street, was it only because you didn’t get a good night’s rest?”

“Fuck off, Sam,” Dean bites out before jumping up from his seat and stalking toward the door.

Sam’s right on his heels, looking just as angry as Dean feels right now. “No, Dean. Every time something happens to you, you go and bottle it up and pretend you have to take it all on your own until it virtually _kills you_ , and all the while I have to just sit there and watch it happen because you won’t let me in.” Sam doubles his steps until he’s right in front of Dean, hands poised up to signify Dean to stop. Dean does, if only because he’s never really learned how to say no to Sam. “Please, just... I want to help, Dean. There’s something wrong with you and I want to help. Whatever it is, whatever burden you feel you have to carry, just know that I’ll help you carry it, no matter what.”

Dean snorts. “Well, that’s fucking cheesy.”

The smile Sam gives him is on the border of sad and sheepish. “Yeah, but it’s true.”

Dean stares down at his feet and feels Sam’s gaze burning a hole right through him. His first thought is to lie — because that’s always his first thought, and the most reliable one, too. It would probably be the best option as well. Even if Sam would see right through it just like Sam always sees through him, Dean would rather be a liar in his brother’s eyes than what he truly is.

His second thought, the self-destructive option that’s always present with Dean, is to tell Sam flat out. Just to test him. Just to make Sam feel sorry he ever stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.

“We were married,” Dean starts quietly. He doesn’t look up to see Sam’s reaction, just continues talking at his shoes. “We were married, and you were a lawyer, and I was a goddamn _housewife_ , and we lived in a real yuppie house in this real yuppie neighborhood.”

Dean pauses to gulp in air. His chest feels like it’s on fire. Sam is still quiet. “Meg was there, and she was married to Cas, which actually makes more sense than it sounds. I played bridge with a couple of old broads and made dinner for you when you got home like a fucking doting wife, and we had a _spice garden_ , Sam. A fucking _spice garden_ , and I was —” Dean pauses again, voice catching and chest aching. He forces himself to lock eyes with Sam, who’s staring at him with his mouth slightly open. “I was happy, Sam.”

Dean is breathing like he’s just run a marathon, and he doesn’t know why until Sam strides into his space and swipes at his cheek with his thumb. “You’re crying, Dean.”

The words knock Dean back into place, and he shuts down and shoves back against Sam. “We need to leave.”

Sam looks exasperated. “Dean —”

“Didn’t you say something about a haunting in Connecticut?” Dean doesn’t wait for an answer, just walks a little too quickly to where the impala is parked.

Sam jogs until he’s in front of Dean, cutting him off from the safety of the car. “ _Dean_ —”

“What?” Dean snaps.

The street lamps glint off Sam’s teeth when he says, “You’re so fucking stupid.” Before Dean can even think to formulate a reply, Sam is cupping his cheeks and bringing their lips together.

Startled, Dean pulls back instinctively, but Sam only follows him forward to keep their lips pressed together. After a few beats of Dean not kissing back, Sam breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away. He presses his forehead against Dean’s. When he laughs Dean feels his breath against his lips. “We’re both so fucking stupid.”

Dean can probably think of a clever retort to that, but instead he surges forehead and kisses Sam again, this time wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck to anchor them together.

It’s so different from kissing the fake Sam. In Dean’s dream, that Sam was only a compilation of every fantasy Dean had ever dared have. This right here, this is the real thing, and it’s so good. It’s so good Dean feels like he’s going to drown in it.

Sam pulls back to speak, but Dean tries to connect their lips together again. Sam acquiesces for a few seconds, but then pulls back again, this time using his hands to keep Dean’s face away from his own. “Tell me you want me, Dean.”

Dean growls and tries to kiss Sam again, only to be held in place. “What do you think is happening right now, Sam?”

“I need to hear you say it.”

Heat rushes over Dean, prickling his skin uncomfortably. He feels annoyed with Sam for even asking something as silly as this, now of all times, but mostly he feels annoyed with himself that he can’t say it. Years of avoiding this, of purging this very thought has left Dean with a blocked throat. He stares helplessly up at Sam and threads his fingers through Sam’s hair, hoping he can translate what he means through look and touch alone.

Sam searches his eyes, then sighs. “Okay. It’s okay, Dean.”

It’s not, Dean know it’s not, but he surges up to kiss Sam again to try and make it that way anyway.


End file.
